


Ties That Bind

by ameliacareful



Series: Massa Carnis [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Incest, M/M, Sam is a slave, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: Sam picks up his sandwich and as he does, the waitress comes by to refill their drinks. It isn’t until he sees her spot his bar code that he realizes he didn’t use concealer. How could he have possibly forgotten.“Wait, is that a slave?” she frowns. “I’m sorry, he can’t eat in here.”John looks up and Sam feels as if he would rather be anywhere else.“That’s my son,” John says in a voice so cold that Sam would swear the place is haunted.“I’m sorry,” the waitress says. “It’s code. We could be shut down. I can bag up the meal but he’ll have to leave.”





	Ties That Bind

 

 

            When Dean pulls into the truck stop, he finds his father and brother around the back. Sam is sitting on a curb and his dad is rooting around in his truck. Sam looks fine if a little cold. It’s chilly and windy. Dean parks the Impala as near John’s big Sierra truck as he can and grabs water. John straightens up.

            “Hey Dean,” he says.

            Dean can’t begin to describe the relief he feels seeing his father. John looks good. He called about ten minutes out of town and Dean had to tell him that Sam was missing and he was driving around town looking for him. Now here is John, with Sam. His dad opens his arms.

            The hug feels incredible. Warm in the cold of the day. A moment of safety in a desert of fear. “You look good,” John says. “Are you okay? Sam said it was bad.”

            “I’m okay now,” Dean says. He doesn’t really know how to say anything to John. John keeps his hands on Dean’s shoulders and he holds him at arm’s length, looking him over.

            “How’d you find him?” Dean asks, to get his dad’s attention on something else.

            “I checked his ID number, see if he’d been logged in anywhere. Found him logged in here.”

            “Logged in?” Dean asks. How did John even know Sam’s ID number? He left the title when he left Sam. And his journal—normally wouldn’t he have put that info there?

John shakes his head. Looks away.

            Dean walks over to his brother and hands him a bottle of water. “You okay?”

            Sam nods without really looking at him.

            “You can’t do that, just take off,” Dean says. “You gotta answer your phone.” Anger bubbles inside him. Guilt, too. _This is your brother_ , he reminds himself.

            Sam nods but still won’t meet his eyes.

            “What the hell are you doing here?”

            Sam clears his throat. “I, ah, figured I could, you know, hang out here.”

            At a truck stop next to the highway? His bar code isn’t concealed so Dean’s pretty sure that they won’t let Sam in the restaurant. Dean looks over at his dad. “have you eaten? I’m gonna pick up some food inside. You want anything?”

            “Sure,” John says, gesturing like ‘whatever’.

            Inside the bustle is familiar but he feels as if he’s seeing it through Sam’s eyes. All these seats, the warmth, the food and drink, and no way to get any of it. He orders three of the special to go, feeling uncomfortable, takes his bags and heads back out.

            His dad is leaning up against the truck. Sam is still sitting on the curb, sipping his water. Nothing has changed. “We’ll eat at the hotel and then pack up,” John says. “Head out tonight. I’ve got a lead on something in Chicago.”

            The motel room is paid for tonight but Dean knows better than to argue.

            Sam sinks into the back of the Impala. He has been riding up front more and more and Dean really wants to be able to look at him, talk to him before they get back to the motel and John is there.

            “Talk to me, Sam,” Dean says.

            “Sir?”

            “None of that ‘sir’ crap.” He glances up into the rearview mirror and meets Sammy’s eyes. Sam’s gaze slides away, ashamed.

            “What the hell is going on?”

            “I’m sorry,” Sam says quietly.

            “What for?”

            Sam doesn’t answer.

            “Look, I shouldn’t have yelled at you, but you don’t have to do that stuff anymore. You’re with me. I’ll take care of you.”

            Another glance into the rearview mirror but Sam isn’t looking.

            After a long silence, Sam says, “You were dying.”

            Yeah, not like he was taking care of Sam at all. What the hell did he think was going to happen to Sam when he died? He knew his dad wouldn’t just abandon the kid, but what if while Sam was waiting around for him, someone decided to throw him out of the motel room? He wasn’t supposed to be there. It was free persons only. Dean always just booked the room and figured what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. It’s not like Sam was contaminating the sheets with slavery. How did Sam book the room? Probably some crap about certifications or something.

            “We’re gonna get that bar code off of you now that Dad is here,” Dean said.

 

#

 

            “Dad,” Dean says. They’re eating their food from the truck stop. He got fried chicken but now that he’s looking at it, his stomach is twisted. “What happened?”

            “Nothing,” John says.

            Dean doesn’t know what _that_ refers to but he presses on because he has to know. “No, I mean when Sam was a baby. You didn’t…I talked to a lawyer and he said that the only way to becomes a slave was to be born that way or, you know, go to prison.”

            “You talked to a lawyer?” John growls.

            Dean knows the rules, don’t interact with authorities except for stuff for the case. They are off the radar. But. “We’ve got to get the bar code off of Sammy,” Dean says.

            “He’s with you,” John says. “What difference does it make?”

            “What difference does it make?! Dad! He’s a slave!”

            Sam is silent, picking at the breading on his chicken.

            “You and I know he’s not really a slave,” John says. “So who cares what anybody else thinks?”

            Dean doesn’t even know how to answer that. How to say, it’s not that simple. He can’t bring himself to say that Sam IS a slave so he calls up the photos on his camera. Sam’s hands with gravel in them. Sam’s face bruised, the wiring visible on his teeth. Sam’s back after being hit with a baseball bat.

            “What happened?” John asks, frowning.

            “A couple of assholes decided to lynch him,” Dean says.

            “Why didn’t you fight back?” John asks Sam.

            Sam swallows. Dean feels in the middle. His dad doesn’t get it. Doesn’t know that you can’t just pretend. “He can’t! You know what happens if a slave hits someone? Tell him Sam!”

            Sam picks at his chicken. John looks at him.

            Sam finally says softly, “We’re euthanized.”

            “He can’t go into a restaurant. He can’t _stay_ anywhere, not even a crappy motel like this. He can be picked up at any time. He’s a _slave_!”

            John’s face goes still. Dean can tell that hits him. He can see the thousand thoughts crossing his dad’s face—thinking things like, well, we could go to prison for the things we do, so we’re just never then when shit comes down. Dean wants to say ‘but Sam can’t really travel’. Sam can’t…do much of anything. Dominos falling. “I’m sorry,” Sam says.

            “Sammy,” John says. “I… I’m, I didn’t know.”

            “Did you hand him over to be a slave?” Dean asks.

            “NO!” John says. He shakes his head and takes a breath. “After—” he doesn’t say after your mother died, he just skips, “there was this social worker. Lawrence social services or some shit. She talked to me about what was best for Sammy, about what was best for a baby. Missouri said that there was something about the baby that made him vulnerable. You weren’t talking and I could tell they were thinking about taking both of you away from me. I turned him over for adoption so he would be far away from everything. Hidden.” John says to Sam, “You have to believe me, I never intended you to be a slave. I thought you were in some suburb, going to school, playing soccer. Normal crap.”

            “Then how did he end up a slave?” Dean asks.

            “The man with the yellow eyes said I had it in my blood,” Sam says to his chicken.

            Dean can hear John’s hissed intake of breath.

            Sam glances up at Dean.

            “Where—” Dean asks.

            “In New Orleans. I thought they were dreams. Then there were ghosts. Then Walt and Roy came and I knew they were true. I think I always knew that there was something wrong with me.”           

 

#

 

            Sam doesn’t like hunting with John. It’s grimmer. But he can see the change in Dean. Dean watches John like he’s the answer to every question. Sam rides in the Impala with Dean. In the car, Dean calls him ‘Samantha’ and threatens to cut his hair. He plays his music loud and drums on the steering wheel.

            “Don’t give me that face,” Dean says to Sam.

            “What?” Sam says.

            “All bitchy about Led Zeppelin. Zeppelin is awesome.”

            They follow John’s big Sierra pickup into a diner parking lot. “Oh, man, I remember this place,” Dean says. “We haven’t been here in years.” He parks the Impala and looks at Sam. “He’s a little rough, but he cares, Sam. Really. Don’t let him get to you.”

            Sam nods. He sits next to Dean in the booth, watches John peruse the menu.

            “Menu’s different,” Dean says. “They’ve got all this wrap crap and sprouts. Who eats grass?”

            “Burgers are still good,” John says. “Tell ‘em to pile on the onions.”

            Dean does, flirting with the waitress. Sam can’t bring himself to quite face trying to eat that in front of John. He knows his table manners are bad. He tries to hold a fork the way Dean does but he’s clumsy. Picking up a sandwich full of extra stuff is a sure way to end up with it all over his lap. He orders a grilled chicken sandwich and watches John and Dean to see if he’s doing something wrong.

            “It’s weird,” Dean says.

            Sam freezes. What is he doing wrong?

            “In a good way. Like, Sammy was always sort of, in our heads, you know?”

            John grunts but won’t look up from his paper. Sam doesn’t think he was in John’s head in the same way.

            “And now you’re really here,” Dean says and grins with his cheeks full.

            Sam smiles. Now he is really here. When he tried to imagine the family that gave him up, he has to admit, this is not what he ever pictured.

            He picks up his sandwich and as he does, the waitress comes by to refill their drinks. It isn’t until he sees her spot his bar code that he realizes he didn’t use concealer. How could he have possibly forgotten.

            “Wait, is that a slave?” she frowns. “I’m sorry, he can’t eat in here.”

            John looks up and Sam feels as if he would rather be anywhere else.

            “That’s my son,” John says in a voice so cold that Sam would swear the place is haunted.

            “I’m sorry,” the waitress says. “It’s code. We could be shut down. I can bag up the meal but he’ll have to leave.”

            Sam gets up and John says, “Sam,” in that voice.

            Caught between the waitress and John, Sam does the only thing he can think of, he drops to his knees.

            “He’s certified. For service,” Dean says fast. “For me. I mean he’s a service slave. I’ve got anxiety and stuff,” Dean is digging for Sam’s title with its certifications. “Sammy, show them your pass.”

            It doesn’t make any difference, Sam knows, but he pulls it out of his wallet.

            “Look, I get it,” the waitress says, although her face says she doesn’t. “But he can’t eat here. He can sit on the floor and I can bring him water but that’s it.”

            John stands up, throws a wad of cash on the table. “Thanks,” he snaps.

            “You want me to bag up—”

            But John is already heading for the door.

            “Come on,” Dean says and slides out of the booth. In the Impala, Dean says, “I should have remembered. We should have put the stuff on your hand.”

            “ _I_ should have remembered,” Sam says. It’s him that’s the problem. He has to get his head on straight. He has to be smart. He has been fucking this up royally. Dean and John have no idea how to be owners and it’s up to him to manage that. Dean is getting better. But Sam is getting all tangled up in Dean’s brother business. Getting emotional. He needs to stop getting people angry, stop doing the wrong things. No more work. No more touching Dean (which makes him deeply, indescribably sad, but he needs to think about that later.) He needs to respectfully be able to warn John and Dean about the things they don’t know. He needs to balance their emotions. John might hit him but that’s not so bad. It’s like working for Mr. Tom, who in the last few months had dementia and would mistake Sam for one of his kids. Sam walked that line carefully. Kept Mr. Tom safe and happy and didn’t overstep his bounds.

            He’s the expert here.

 

#

 

            They stop outside of Chicago. There’s something big in Chicago but John doesn’t want to tackle it right away. Wants to spend the afternoon and night here and then go into the city.

            Sam actually feels pretty clear about things, less unsettled than he has in awhile. John comes out of the office and throws a room key at Dean who catches it with an easy grace. Dean hides his gracefulness, Sam thinks.

            “I’m going to get a drink,” John says.

            “You want company?” Dean asks.

            “No. Make sure you and Sam get something to eat.”

            Sam feels a subtle emphasis on ‘Sam’. This is because of what happened at the diner, he’s sure.

            “You sure?” Dean asks.

            “I’m sure, Dean,” John says.

            Sam watches Dean’s shoulders fall just the slightest bit. Sam goes and gets the duffels. Does John know how much Dean wants to hang with his father? Sam thinks about the case they did at the lake, with the boy. How good Dean was with the boy who didn’t talk. John said _you weren’t talking_. Dean lost his mom when he was four. Sam wants to ask him things but that’s a trap. Slaves don’t ask. Slaves watch, follow orders.

            Dean hides his pain behind jokes but he can’t really hide it around John—although John doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe that’s just Dean as far as John is concerned. In the room, Dean can’t get settled. He throws himself on the bed, then decides they should have Chinese delivered. Chinese is Sam’s favorite these days and he suspects this is for him. Dean orders all the weird kinds of food with their weird names and sends Sam to the vending machine to get sodas.

            There’s a woman getting a drink there. She’s blond and cute. She glances at him and says, “Здравствуй!”

            Sam says, “Доброе утро!” without thinking. ‘Good evening’ to her ‘hello’. In Russian. When he was little he thought Russian was a language only he and Sasha spoke. A code. He only found out there was a country that spoke it when he was in his teens and heard two guys speaking it in the club. He hates to speak it to anyone. It’s a secret. But it’s rude not to talk to free persons.

            “ _You’re from Russia?”_ he asks in the language.

            “Oh,” she says in English. “That just popped out! I’m Meg.”

            “Sam.”

            “You speak Russian?” she asks.

            “Some,” he says. It’s nearly his first language, but he only has kitchen Russian, that is, the kind of things families say. He can’t really talk about a lot of things, he doesn’t have the vocabulary. He was eight when Sasha died.

            “Your accent is great. St. Petersburg?”

            “I’ve never been out of the US,” Sam shows his bar code. “My mom spoke it.”

            She doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about his bar code. She says in Russian, “ _Want to get something to eat? I’d love to have someone to talk to._ ”

            “ _I can’t_ ,” Sam says. “ _My owner is waiting for me_.”

            She shrugs and says in English, “Too bad.” She waggles her can of coke, “Rum and cokes. Room 26 if you change your mind.”

            Sam gets a coke and a sprite.

            When he gets back to the room, Dean is standing in front of the television, clicking through the channels. He has an expression on his face that Sam knows. He almost says, “You’re tense.” Instead he just puts the sodas on the desk.

            “Wish we had beer,” Dean says. “You want a beer?”

            “I’m okay,” Sam says.

            Dean heads to the bathroom and after a moment, Sam hears the shower go on. Dean’s not going to stay in the room tonight, Sam knows it. Dean is like an itch. Sam kind of wants him to head out. On the other hand, he isn’t sure he wants to have to pay for the Chinese food. The delivery guy might see he’s a slave and after today he doesn’t want to get them in trouble with the hotel. He figures if the delivery guy comes while Dean is in the shower, he’ll tip a $20. That should keep the guy happy.

Dean finishes his shower before the moo goo gai pan shows up. He goes through his duffel and pulls out his ‘nice’ shirt. Dean is going out. He’s still in his socks when the food comes. That’s one less thing to worry about.

            “Hey,” Dean says, “I think I’m going to head out. You okay here?”

            “Sure,” Sam says. “I’ve got fried rice and stuff. I’ve got a couple of joints left.” He told Dean about the weed. “When do you think your dad will be back?”

            Dean snorts. “Don’t expect to see him before tomorrow. You sure you’ll be okay?”

            Sam knows what Dean needs. “Get out of here,” he says. “You’re making me crazy. I’m gonna watch science documentaries. Maybe read more Game of Thrones.”

            Dean grins, relieved. “Call if you need anything.”

            When the Impala rumbles outside, Sam relaxes. He thinks about the girl who spoke Russian. He wants nothing to do with her or Room 26. He really wants nothing to do with anything. He’s gonna relax.

            He checks out the food. Alone. With a TV, food, a book, and a little weed. He fishes a joint out of his duffel and sits in the bathroom with the exhaust fan on and lets the world focus down and lose its edges. He wanders out, feeling happy and stoned and eats some food. Eggrolls which have no egg. Moo goo gai pan. He tries the words out. “ _Moooooo goooo gai pan_.” Free persons are weird. The room is hot and he peels off his shirt and t-shirt, then his jeans.

            They didn’t wear clothes much in the massage parlor in New Orleans. They gave massages while nude. Sometimes he’d put on a pair of gym shorts between massages, sometimes the girls would wear a little bath robe. But mostly they just hung out naked. He was naked in the clubs when he was younger, too. It feels good to get naked. He picks up the third book of the Game of Thrones and settles in.

 

#

 

            Dean doesn’t want to run into his dad. The Grande Sierra is hulking there, big and black in the parking lot of the first place he checks out. The next bar is full of people who are obviously there after work, the kind of place where people order appletinis. The bar after that is a narrow place and all the people in it are Latino—guys who work outside in landscaping and shit. No women. Tejano on the juke box.

            He finally finds a place. No pool table (although he still has most of the $700 Sam gave him.) It’s got a bad vibe to it, though. Hard to explain. He has a couple of beers and decides fuck it, he’ll pick up and twelve pack and go back and steal the tv remote from Sam. Find a decent movie.

            He walks into the motel room, six pack under his arm. Sam is on his bed.

Naked, reading a book, one wrist on his raised knee as he holds a joint.

            Holy shit. “Sam!”

            Sam looks up and he’s clearly stoned. “You’re back early,” he says and smiles, all dimples and bright white teeth.

            “What are you doing?” Dean asks.

            Sam holds up the copy of the book he’s reading like that’s an explanation.

            “This place reeks of pot,” Dean says. He’s just saying things because Sam is there, naked, and he’s, well, he’s naked.

            Sam says, “Yeah, I smoked the first one in the bathroom but the place smells like cigarettes anyway.” He holds out the joint. “Want a hit?”

            Dean puts the beer down and says, “You’re not wearing any clothes.”

            Sam laughs a little and says, “Oh yeah, sorry. I didn’t expect you to be home yet.” He’s still holding out the joint.

            Dean takes it and takes a hit. The smoke is hot and harsh and familiar. Dean’s really an alcohol guy. But he doesn’t mind a good buzz.

            “It’s pretty strong,” Sam warns.

            Dean hands him back the joint and sits down on the bed. He looks anywhere but at Sam. Dean exhales, letting the smoke out. “You’re naked,” he says again.

            Sam is looking at him. He blinks, then says, “You want me to get dressed?”

            It seems stupid when Sam asks that way. Sam doesn’t seem to think anything of it. Mean anything by it. He’s not aroused. He’s just…very naked. A lot of long, muscled Sam without any clothes on. He has barely any chest hair. He doesn’t even have a lot of leg hair and it looks like he’s shaved his crotch…Dean is not going to go there, not with his eyes or his thoughts.

            Sam, who is usually so quick to make sure nothing is wrong, doesn’t leap up and get some jeans on. He just looks at Dean, waiting for Dean to tell him what to do.

            “Normal people don’t walk around naked, Sam,” Dean says.

            “Oh,” Sam says. He starts to sit up, a little frown appearing between his eyebrows. It occurs to Dean that he’s never seen Sam this relaxed, this…normal. If naked is normal. Which as he just pointed out, it is not. Dean isn’t a prude, he’s done the naked thing after sex a kazillion times. But he’s not used to this.

            “Fuck it,” Dean says. “Just, anyway, you want a beer?”

            Sam considers this, by which it seems he has to figure out how what Dean said, what he wants, and then what to say next. “ _Pasib_ ,” he says and giggles. “I means, thanks. Yeah.”

            “Paseeb?”

            “ _Spasibo_. Thank you. In Russian. You’re my family so I’m speaking Russian to you.”

            Dean gets a beer. “You speak Russian?”

            “Yeah. There was a girl getting cokes when I went out before. She was Russian or something.”

            Dean is not following stoned Sam. “You went out naked?”

            “No,” Sam says. “Before. _Khotel by ty potselovat' menya_.”

            “I don’t speak Russian,” Dean says.

            “I know.”

            “Then you’ll have to say it in English.” He grabs a beer for himself and one for Sammy.

            “I wish you would kiss me.”

            Dean sighs. “We talked about this.”

            “I know,” Sam’s frown deepens. “I know, I get it. You’re not attracted to me. Because you’re not gay. But I don’t know why that’s such a big thing. When I first started I wasn’t attracted to anybody I was having sex with. I can count on one hand—” Sam holds up a big hand, fingers spread wide and Dean can’t help but feel a twitch because that big hand has been wrapped around his cock— “the times I’ve had sex with someone I was really attracted to. And those haven’t been the best sex I’ve ever had. Well, _one_ might have been in the top ten percent.”

            Sam has moved from studying fractions to percentages.

            “Sam,” Dean says.

            “No wait.” Stoned, earnest Sam is weirdly charming. “I looked it up and, get this, while the incest taboo is world wide…” Sam studies his hand for a moment, then takes a drink of his beer. He is quiet for a minute. “I lost my train of thought,” he admits. He holds the joint out to Dean.

            Maybe the pot is hitting Dean. He says, “Incest,” and takes a long draw on the joint.

            “Right! Get this, there are incidents of incest in lots to culture! Like the Egyptians and the Mayans. Or maybe the Incans. I can’t remember. And there’s these studies that show that siblings who are raised apart are sometimes attracted to each other. The incest thing only happens when people are raised together.” Sam opens his hand again and studies his palm. “And we’re not going to get pregnant, which is the real issue with incense. Incest. Recessive genes. Passing them along. I’m not really sure about that part, I mean, I’m sure, but I’m still working out how the gene thing works. Dominant and recessive and stuff. So the only reason you’re worried is because you think you’re supposed to be. And I don’t care.”

            Dean exhales and hands the joint back to Sam. “That was pretty amazing.”

            Sam dimples. “Thanks. I shouldn’t even say anything, I wasn’t going to. I was going to, you know, keep my head down and stop causing trouble. Only do what I’m told. Be good. _Dubina stoyerosovaya_.” He knocks on his skull with his knuckles.

            Dean says, “What does that mean?”

            Sam hesitates a moment. “Stupid head. Something like that.”

            “Are you calling me a stupid head?” Dean teases.

            Sam says, “No, me.” And laughs.

            Dean loves his sex fun. Sometimes the rough stuff is fine, but this, sex with someone who is happy and having a good time, is an incredible turn on. Good feelings. Everybody happy in the morning. “I can’t,” Dean says.

            “Why not?”

            “I don’t want to exploit you, you’re stoned, and you’re…” Dean says, “you’re, like, paying me back.”

            “Nah,” Sam says. He reaches over the space between the two beds and runs his finger in circles on Dean’s knee. Dean knows he should stop him.

            Dean wants to stop Sam from doing that. Sam’s shoulders are broad, his forearms wide and muscled. He has biceps. It shouldn’t be attractive but it is. Sam takes another draw on the joint and leans forward. “Open up,” he says airlessly.

            Dean opens and Sam gives him a shotgun. Dean takes a deep breath in, herbal and smoky and Sam. The smoke is cooler, of course, less harsh. Sam just barely touches Dean’s lips with his own.

            Dean doesn’t know what to do. The pot is working on him. He’s getting high pretty quick. As Sam says, the stuff is strong. Or maybe he’s high on Sam. Because right now it doesn’t seem to matter if Sam is a guy. He’s bone and muscle, warmth and breath. Sam reaches and grabs the back of Dean’s neck and his big hands can cup most of the back of Dean’s skull.

            Dean isn’t even aroused, exactly. Sam lets go and takes another hit off the end of the joint and then drops it in a soda can and shakes his fingers when it nearly burns him and leans forward again.

            Dean does, too.

            Sam breaths the smoke into Dean. It’s a little hard to sync up, inhaling as Sammy exhales. Sam pushes him down and climbs next to him. “Move over.”

            Dean is beginning to find his legs and arms a bit complicated. Move which way? Oh, yeah, that way, to give more room.

            Time is getting different. Sam unbuckles Dean’s belt and Dean thinks about stopping him but doesn’t because he can’t figure out a good reason not to. Sam had good arguments. Sam grabs his hips and skins his jeans down. Tangles them for a moment around his ankles. Sam smiles, a little abashed but then pulls off Dean’s boots and gets his jeans off him. Then he lays one hand against Dean’s chest.

            Dean can feel each individual finger.

            As soon as Sam does one thing it’s easy to forget what he just did the moment before. Each moment becomes itself, a full and complete feeling. Sam rubs his thumb across Dean’s nipple and Dean can’t help but make a startled noise.

            “Ticklish?” Sam says and puts his palm against Dean’s pec.

            Dean should answer, but he’s already distracted.

            “I want to lick your balls, Dean,” Sam says. “Can I lick your balls?”

            “Okay,” Dean says.

            Sam crawls between his knees. “Lift your knees up, let me really get to them.”

            Dean does, legs in the air. Sam swipes a tongue across first one ball and then the other. The he starts in the middle of Dean’s taint and takes a long lick all the way up between his balls and up his penis to the head and Dean gasps.

            Sam settles in, running his tongue hard across the space between Dean’s balls then gently sucking them one by one into his mouth.

            It’s impossible to think about anything but what is happening, about the feelings. It’s been a long time since Dean had stoned sex. Why isn’t he doing this all the time?

            Sam wraps a hand around his cock and just holds it and Dean can’t help but whimper a bit. He opens his eyes and Sam is intent, eyes closed, hair half in his face. It’s sexy and great. Sam opens his eyes and looks at him and Dean can tell he is smiling by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. Dean lets his head fall back and stops trying to follow exactly what happens.

            He rides the sensations, feeling a drop of saliva roll down his butt cheek. Feeling Sam’s tongue. Then Sam’s still hand, then his tongue.

            He doesn’t know how long it is until Sam switches it up, rising up and taking Dean’s dick in his mouth. Sam does something with his tongue—tickling at the head of his cock maybe but it’s hard to sort out the sensations. Sam stops and Dean lifts his head in time to see Sam spit on his hand then grab Dean’s cock again.

            Sam starts jacking him at the base of his cock while sucking and bobbing and Dean loses track of everything. He is chasing his orgasm, it is close but he’s stoned. He tightens, tightens—

            “Deep breath,” Sam says, “relax. Don’t reach for it.”

            He does, trusting, letting it build on it’s own, he thinks maybe it won’t come, sometimes it’s hard to come when he’s stoned, but then it does, a wave, rising and rising and crashing until the world is gone and he’s awash in it. Senseless in orgasm. He can hear himself, “Uh-uh…uh.”

            The wave recedes and then comes again, recedes a little more, rises again, not as high and Sam milks him through it. It washes through him, leaving him weak and done.

            It’s good sex. He opens his eyes and laughs and Sam is grinning at him. Sam plops his head on the pillow next to him.

            Dean lets the world turn without him, lets go of everything for a moment and just feels the loose pleasure of after. Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

            “I’ll get you a wash cloth,” Sam says.

            “Stay for a minute,” Dean says.

            Sam does.

 

#

 

            Sam eventually gets him a washcloth and then when he finds out Dean hasn’t eaten, brings him moo goo gai pan and mu shu pork. Sam happily makes pancakes and gives them to Dean. Dean feels stupid eating from Sam’s hand but doesn’t mind having them made for him.

            “Are you gay?” he asks Sam.

            Sam shrugs. “Sure.”

            “I mean, do you like women? For sex?”

            “Yeah. Sure.”

            “Then you’re not gay,” Dean says.

            Sam nods and takes a drink of his beer.

            Dean is pretty sure there are two different conversations going on here. “Sam,” he says. “If you could have sex with anybody, who would it be?”

            Sam grins. “You, obviously.”

            “I’m serious, forget owners. Do you like women or men or both?”

            Sam thinks for a moment. “I’ve only had sex with women who were slaves, like me. I don’t know if free women are the same. Sex with a woman is different, but I like both of them I guess.”

            Dean decides that will have to be his answer. “Can I jerk you off?”

            “Sure,” Sam says. “If you want to, but you don’t have to.”

            “Do you like having someone do that?”

            Sam looks at Dean as if Dean has lost his mind. “Yeah, don’t you?”

            Dean can’t tell if he wants to strangle Sam or cry. Instead he runs his hand over Sam’s warm thigh and reaches between Sam’s legs to tease his blunt fingernails along Sam’s cock.

            Sam leans back against the headboard and spreads his legs. “Next time,” he says.

            Dean runs his fingers across Sam’s balls and then palms the head of Sam’s cock and Sam gasps.

            “Next time?” Dean says.

            “Next time I’ll clean up and you can fuck me,” Sam says, eyes closed.

            God help him, Dean can feel his cock try to stiffen.

            He spits in his own hand and slowly massages Sam’s cock. He watches the way Sam breaths, little gasps of pleasure. He works him slowly, mixing spit and precum until his hand slides easily up and down Sam’s cock.

            Sam tries to rise a little into Dean’s hand but Dean won’t let him, making him build as slowly as he can. Sam’s eyes open in surprise and maybe a little wonder, but then he shudders and closes them again.

            It doesn’t take long and Sam comes all over his hand, gasping.

            They eat a little more Chinese food and drink more beer and _Indiana Jones_ is on television so they watch that.

            During a commercial, Sam whispers, “This is the best night of my life.”

            When Sam is asleep, Dean careful extracts himself and goes to sleep in the other bed. He has trouble going to sleep. The pot and the beer have worn off, and he lays in the dark wondering what happens next.

            It is after two when he hears his dad’s truck pull into the parking lot. He turns on his side, away from the window, and tries not to think.

 

#

 


End file.
